


Morning Dawns in November

by vega_voices



Category: The Newsroom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Forgiveness wasn’t necessary. The pain they’d put each other through over the years had wiped the need for forgiveness out of the picture.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Dawns in November

**Title:** Morning Dawns in November  
 **Author:** vegawriters  
 **Fandom:** The Newsroom  
 **Timeframe:** Directly following the Season Two finale.  
 **Rating:** M  
 **A/N:** Like Will, I couldn’t ignore Mac any longer.  
 **Disclaimer:** The Newsroom and all its characters and concepts do belong to HBO and Aaron Sorkin. But as a fic writer, I want to thank him for coming back with a bang.

 **Summary:** _Forgiveness wasn’t necessary. The pain they’d put each other through over the years had wiped the need for forgiveness out of the picture._

Habit woke her after just a few hours. She hadn’t slept in what felt like six months, and despite not crawling into bed until almost six in the morning, MacKenzie was wide awake by noon. Will, thankfully, still slept. He needed it more than she did really, so she tugged off the bra that now felt like it needed to be burned, and rooted through his closet for something to throw on. There was a big black shirt she’d always loved, so she pulled that from the hanger, buttoned all but the top few buttons, and wandered toward the bathroom. She was in desperate need of a shower and a change of underwear, but she didn’t have any clothes here and while logically she knew that any of the women’s clothing she would find in his closets or dresser drawers were leftovers from whatever flings and relationships he’d been indulging in to save himself from drowning, she had no desire to actually wear their clothing. In fact, the bitter part of her wanted only to set fire to the fabric. Later, she’d do a full inventory and toss it all out. The shelter down the street could use it, she was sure. Once she was more awake, she would pour herself into a cab and head back to her place. Life went on, after all. She still had to go to the office; there was still fallout from Genoa to unravel and the elections weren’t going to be over in some places for weeks. There was news. The country still had a Tea Party congress and a moderate democrat for a president who was more than happy to treat the whiny teenager tea partiers like the brats they were, but the problem was that the brats were too big in number and going to rebel against a disciplinarian of a father. There was still the NSA story – which felt so much bigger than it was right now. Beyond all of that, Sloan deserved an apology. An unfortunate series of coincidences had led to her being overrun most of the night and Sloan was too good an anchor for that to ever happen again. Will also needed to apologize to her.

For all the bells and whistles in Will’s multi-million dollar apartment, all the flat screen tvs and the video games and the leather davenports and the sleek appliances, there were also still some simple, user friendly things. The tea kettle. The coffee pot. And while her caffeine choices were just as American as any other New Yorker – save for their love of soda – she was too British not to start her day with a perfect cup of tea. She opened cupboards, looking for the familiar yellow boxes of bags that Americans liked to call tea, but came up empty. Of course. She couldn’t expect Will to have tea. They hadn’t been together for six years.

“The silver canister, Mac.”

She jumped and turned. He was in the doorway in his boxers and a t-shirt, his hair disheveled and still looking absolutely exhausted. “Go back to bed!”

“Only if you join me,” he said as he crossed the kitchen. He backed her up against the refrigerator, his lips on hers and she lost herself in the kiss the way she had last night, in the shadows of the studio, when she and the man she loved had finally figured out what should have been said six years ago. Forgiveness wasn’t necessary. The pain they’d put each other through over the years had wiped the need for forgiveness out of the picture. No, this was about going forward. Accepting that the pain was going to be there, that they’d hurt each other in the past and now it was about making sure they didn’t do it again. Now it was about the reality of life together, the life they could have had, if she hadn’t been so bloody scared of being in love and he hadn’t been so terrified of trust.

They’d fallen into bed when they got back to his place and before her clothes had hit the floor, they’d both been asleep. Now, sleepy morning urges took them over and one kiss became two became endless need for connection and he tugged her two-day worn underwear down her legs and she pushed his boxers out of the way and they tripped over each other on the way to the couch where she settled on his lap and they came together for the first time in years. It wasn’t frenzied. That could come later. It was as the kiss had been in the studio and just now in the kitchen, lost not in the memory of what it had been like but the knowledge that all the memories could bring them through this. Here. Together.

She moaned out his name in climax and his hands left bruises on her hips as he arched up into her. She collapsed against him, refusing the tears that wanted to come, knowing she couldn’t stop them. It had been so long and she’d been so hurt – not just by his actions but her own and for all the tears she’d allowed herself since returning to New York, she still hadn’t allowed herself the ones of forgiveness.

His hand was stroking through her hair and down her back. “Why?” He asked quietly. She pulled back, suddenly ready for yet another round. But the look in his eyes was different. “Why of all places Iraq and Afghanistan? Why there? Why, Mac? Why? Were you trying to get yourself killed? Do you know how many nights I sat up …” He shook his head, cutting himself off.

MacKenzie sucked in a breath and let it out again. “I needed … something different. To prove myself. To myself.”

“Why?”

She hated that he was as much a reporter as she was. She hated that he knew her. “Billy …”

“Why there? You could go off and prove yourself to yourself anywhere. Why there, Mac?”

She stared at him, let her eyes trail down the length of their bodies, how they were still settled together. His fingers traced along the scar from the knife wound. Finally she looked back at him. “I went where the story was, and where I could focus on anything that wasn’t this soap opera I’d left behind. I went because even knife wounds were easier to deal with than what I’d done to you. So I went to do the news, to see news that wasn’t me. I went to report on stories that no one wanted to cover and talk to people before America repeated its mistake with Vietnam. And if somewhere along the way something came along that hurt less than what I’d done, it would make it easier.”

He shook his head. “You did some damned good reporting out there.”

“I know.” She gave a bit of a smile. “I mean, when all you want to do is be focused on anything other than your personal life …”

“You still found ways to email me.”

“Billy …”

“I’m glad you did, is all I’m saying.”

She pulled back off his lap and walked toward the bedroom. “Come on back to bed.”

“What about your tea?”

“It can wait.”

She heard him push off the couch and his arm wrapped around her as they made their way back to bed. The office could wait until the afternoon.

_~Fin~_


End file.
